-LRB- Real Simple -RRB- -- I live in Chicago , and one of my best friends , Phyllis , lives in San Francisco , so we are n't able to see each other as often as we would like .

The times we do get together , we like to live it up , and for us , living it up always involves chowing down . So last January , when Phyllis sent me an e-mail saying she was coming for the weekend , I knew exactly what restaurant I wanted to take her to . It 's called Tom 's Steak House .

Most of its customers have been coming for decades ; the waitresses have a good-hearted , cigarette-scented toughness about them ; the steaks are the size of Cook County ; and the salad dressings are served from a twirling `` carousel , '' so that you can legitimately play with your food .

It 's the kind of place that 's frozen in time , where you just have to order a Rob Roy . After Phyllis arrived , I told her where we were headed that night . `` You 're going to love this place , '' I kept saying , and Phyllis , in turn , kept saying , `` Oh boy . ''

But as the hour approached , a kind of lethargy set in . It was freezing outside , and we were so cozy inside , dressed in comfortable , slouchy clothes , listening to good music , turning on lights against a darkening winter sky . I asked Phyllis if she would mind if we stayed home . `` We can have martinis and I 'll cook , OK ? '' I said , and she readily agreed .

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What to make ? I wondered . Suddenly I remembered that my neighbor Suzie had given me a recipe , saying , `` I really liked this , and I think you will , too . '' It was for a sausage and bean ragout , and when I read the list of ingredients , I thought , Hmm . This does sound good . It 's easy to make and even low-fat . I 'm going to make it !

Then I never did . But now Suzie 's recipe seemed just right for the occasion , even though neither Phyllis nor I , experienced -LRB- and good -RRB- cooks both , knew exactly what a `` ragout '' was .

I mixed up some martinis , put a CD on the stereo , cranked up the volume , and tied on my apron . While I browned spicy turkey sausage and onion and garlic , Phyllis sang along with the singer-songwriter Duffy and danced around the dining-room table .

It is one thing to see your friend dance around a table when she 's 25 , quite another thing to see her doing it when she 's 62 . I love a 62-year-old woman who does n't shy from thrusting her pelvis out all over the place ; I could n't stop smiling .

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Then Phyllis lowered the volume on the stereo and came to sit down at the kitchen table . `` I need to talk to you about something , '' she said . I stopped chopping basil and looked over at her . `` It 's very embarrassing for me , '' she said , and I saw tears well in her eyes .

Phyllis is an extremely honest person , often quite blunt . For the most part , I truly appreciate that kind of honesty , and so I 'm willing to suffer whatever consequences may come along with it . But I got a little nervous .

I stood still , waiting . I thought she was going to criticize me , and I hoped that I could listen with an open mind and heart . Instead , what she said , in a very small , tremulous voice , was `` I do n't think you liked what I gave you for your birthday . ''

One month earlier , I had celebrated my 60th birthday -- a big one , I think most would agree -- and I had been excited to get Phyllis 's gift . She 's good at coming up with things you never would have thought of for yourself but instantly love .

What she gave me was letters I had written her over our many-years-long friendship . She had bound them into a book and then done something to every page -- enhanced it with color , with silver sprinkles of confetti , with little candy hearts , with autumn leaves , with rubber stamps of coffee cups , with cutout ads from vintage magazines , with collages of various sorts . It was a true work of art , a labor-intensive wonder , and I loved everything about it -- except the person I was in most of those letters .

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Many of the pages represented a time of life when I was desperate and unhappy ; I had written to her of pain and grief and fear and frustration , because she was my dear friend and I needed to talk to her , if not in person , then on paper .

So when I opened the book , I felt as if I had been given tapes from therapy sessions . I felt caught between gratitude and appreciation , and embarrassment and despair . I tried to convey my admiration at the time , but Phyllis would have been completely insensitive not to pick up on my ambivalence , and she is anything but insensitive .

So now , with us alone and in our stocking feet in my kitchen , she told me of her own sadness , of how she had told other friends that I had not liked what she had so earnestly and carefully and creatively done . I came over to embrace her , weeping myself . I said , `` It 's not your gift I did n't like -- it was me I was n't so crazy about . ''

While the ragout simmered on the stove , we talked for some time . Phyllis reminded me that at one point she had offered me my letters back and I had told her I did n't want them , but she decided to go ahead and give them to me anyway -- with the best of intentions . `` I wanted to show you how you had changed , '' she said .

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True enough . The person who wrote those letters spent an awful lot of time feeling bad : about herself , about choices she had made , about life in general . That person did not look upon planet earth as a particularly good place to be , and in fact had articulated more than once the wish to be done with it all .

The person I am now may have her share of dreary days -- who does n't ? -- but she is routinely dazzled by the truth of a simple equation : Life offers far more good than bad .

I had placed the gift in my study , in a place hidden from view but close at hand . I wanted it to be there whenever I was ready to look at it : to accept it as best I could , until I could accept it fully . And some time after my birthday , I found myself paging through Phyllis 's gift .

It was n't a fun read , exactly , but I was surprised by what I found . Certainly the letters showed how sad I had been , but they also illustrated that even in those dark days I had a pretty dang good sense of humor and a deep love for many things : my children , nature , art , food , the eccentricities and vulnerabilities of people .

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I told Phyllis that I was sorry for how I had made her feel and that I had n't told her I had come to appreciate the gift . We wiped away tears , forgave each other , and freshened our drinks .

Suzie 's recipe was divine . We both kept saying , `` Man , this is sensational , '' then smacking our lips and taking more . But the gift Phyllis and I enjoyed that day would never have happened if we had been out in public . We needed to be in our stocking feet , comfortable in the way that being in your best friend 's kitchen makes you be .

I know now that the dictionary definition of ragout is `` a richly seasoned stew of meat and vegetables . '' For me , it will always suggest another kind of mix : a warm kitchen on a winter 's day , an old friend 's candor and absolute trust , and a new friend 's generosity in giving me a recipe , which is always about more than it seems .

That 's because sharing the things that nourish us helps to fill an empty place . Sometimes that place is the stomach . Sometimes it 's the heart . And sometimes , the best times , it 's both .

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Phyllis reveals to Elizabeth that she does n't think Elizabeth liked her birthday gift

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Elizabeth says the gift came with gratitude , appreciation , embarrassment and despair

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`` We wiped away tears , forgave each other , and freshened our drinks ''